It's Not Always Over
by Banbi-V
Summary: John calls it quits and moves on from life with Sherlock, but after a year of separation, lying, and denial, will they put aside their differences and reunite?
1. Chapter 1

A/N: So after reading a wonderful ficlet by starrysummernights (and after begging her to write an angst filled story) she dared me to write it myself instead and here is the finished product. Dedicated to you, ssn, my helpful muse and buddy.

* * *

John Watson was finished.

Done.

It was over.

He stood in front of his chair, fuming, while Sherlock sat in his, hands tucked under his chin in the signature style.

"So, that's it then?" John finally said after a minute, fists shaking.

"Mmm," was Sherlock's reply, not blinking. "It would seem so."

He stood there, biting his lip. "You're not even gonna try to make a-"

"A fighting stance? Why would I? You've made up your mind," Sherlock fired back in under a second. "Why should I try to persaude you?"

John huffed, putting a hand over his eyes and sighing. "I don't know...maybe to show me that you actually care!"

Sherlock scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You want me to fall at your feet, tears in my eyes, begging you to stay?"

"No, now you're being a smart ass!" John snapped, walking towards the bedroom to fetch his things.

"Then I'll continue to be one," Sherlock muttered, not sure if John heard him or not. It didn't matter, he knew he was being stubborn.

So what if another experiment went wrong and set the kitchen on fire, scorching the walls and burning the cabinets beyond repair? So what if it released a toxic fume into the air; the windows had been open and Sherlock got them out before either of them could inhale it. The quartatine team had taken care of the clean up, sanitizing the kitchen to death before they were allowed to re-enter Baker Street.

But apparantly for John, that was a "huge, fucking deal" and was the final straw for him.

Sherlock was silent, unmoving, eyes watching as John pulled out his green duffel bag and stuffed it with his belongings. He was surprised John had stuck around for so long. Sherlock had almost been certain after the pool incident, John would've left, or even after Irene, but he'd stuck around. Of all the things to make him leave, it was this.

After 2 minutes, John zipped up his bag, slung it over his shoulder and walked back into the living room. Taking a deep breath, he slipped off the gold band on his finger and set it on the table beside Sherlock, who remained still as a statue.

"Take care of yourself," John said, his voice now soft, his eyes shimmering with heldback tears. "Please."

"Mmm."

He sighed and headed for the door, leaving his key to the flat on the dresser and trudged down the stairs. John locked the door before closing it and stepping onto the streets, let a tiny sob break through his lips.

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."

"Goddammit!" he cursed, kicking the black metal fence. Sherlock was right...he had been right all along, the damn bastard. Love and sentiment were nothing but bad news and John let himself fall for the most unemotional person on the planet, 100% unlikely to return any affection. Nevermind how he managed to convince said person to agree to being married or even wear an engagement ring.

"It's tacky and cliche. It'll get in the way of work," Sherlock had complained when John slipped the ring on the first time.

Heading down the street, John pulled out his phone, and looking up the furtherest and cheapest hotel, set out to live alone.

Again.


	2. Chapter 2

A year went by and John started to feel better. He'd found his own flat, a nice spacious penthouse blocks from Hyde Park. He transferred to the nearby hospital, working as a surgeon in the ER. The pay was good and hours were through the roof, but he was content. He made several friends whom he went out to drinks with regularly and had a girlfriend or twelve along the way.

Nurses mostly.

_His_ nurses to be exact.

First there was Rachel, the cute blonde, fresh from uni.

Then came Maya, his "Amazon princess."

Then Diana, who used to be a hospice nurse, and quit after seeing too many people die. They dated for a few months before she was transferred again.

After her was Sophie, then Jackie, Penelope, Nichole, and the latest girl had been Mary, but she left after a car crash victim was rolled in, skin peeled from their face, screaming and begging for mercy.

After a long open heart surgery, John stepped into the prep room, removing his tainted clothes and sanitizing himself before putting on his regular clothing. He grabbed his bag, checking the hour before clocking out and finding an unread text.

'Can we meet?' -GL

'Yeah, sure. When?'-JW

'You free now?'-GL

'Just got off work. The bar across from the Yard?'-JW

'Already there.'-GL

John smirked and headed out, walking towards his white Jaguar XKR convertible. He smiled, slipping in to the front seat and starting the engine, chuckled as it roared to life, rumbling happily under him.

"Hey girl," he smiled, rubbing the dash board. "You miss daddy?" John lowered the roof, the cool summer breeze fluffing his hair as he headed out, flooring it. He made it across town in record time, pulling up to the bar. Greg was already outside, nursing a drink. As he pulled up, Greg's jaw dropped, eyes popping out of his head.

"Whoo-ooooah," he laughed, watching John get out. "What the hell is this? When'd you get this?"

John laughed, "About 4 months ago."

"Nice," Greg eyed the car enviously.

"Wanna go for a ride?" John offered, leaning against the hood.

Greg shook his head and downed his drink. "Maybe later. Drinks first, but firstly," he stepped closer and pulled John in for a hug. "It's good to see you, mate. Missed seeing your face."

John chuckled and patted him on the back, realizing where this was going. "You too," he muttered as they headed inside to a table in the corner.

"How's the Yard doing?" John asked as his drink arrived. "Last case I heard about was those construction site murders."

Greg nodded. "Yeah, Christ, those were a dozy. Haven't had too much excitement since then. Just attempted bombing, break ins, missing persons; the usual."

"Ah," John nodded, taking a sip. "How's the wife and kids?"

"Great, they're great. Expecting our third in December. A boy."

"No kidding. Congratulations!" John smiled. "I'll get you a private room at my hospital."

Greg laughed and it sounded as fake as it felt. "Yeah, thanks. Look...I need to talk to you about something. Well...someone, if we're gonna be exact."

John had a feeling this was coming, and slumped in his seat. "Let me guess-

"It's Sherlock, and-"

"I really don't care, Greg," John snapped, looking off, suddenly fascinated by the wallpaper.

"I knew you'd say that, but hear me out. Since you two...split, things haven't been good. He's not eating, barely sleeps, he's worked himself past the point of exhaustion and I'm pretty sure he's got some broken bones that healed improperly-"

"And that's my problem...why?" John sat up and downed most his drink. "That's him being himself, what's it matter to me?"

Greg groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "John...please, can you at _least_ act like you care?"

"He didn't. Why should I?" John knew he sounded cold and heartless. He meant to. If Sherlock had treated him that way all this time, why shouldn't he return the favour?

"Because...in his own way, he misses you. I can tell," Greg admitted. "You know, at last weeks case, he broke Anderson's nose."

John choked on his drink, nearly spilling it. "W-what? Why?"

Greg pursed his lips, a glint of humour in his eyes. "I quote from Anderson 'At least my relationship with Sally is more legit and working better than yours. Oh wait, you don't have any, do you?"

"Ouch," John winced.

"Yeah," Greg agreed. "Sherlock took him down with one punch to the nose. He's in the other hospital, minor surgery and a couple of stitches."

John chuckled in spite of himself. "I'd pay money to see that."

Greg pulled out his phone and opened the video. "Some by-stander got it."

John took the phone and watched as Sherlock's back appeared on the little screen. Even then, John could tell he was severely underweight, but the coat hid it so well. Hair was still black and curly, though a bit knotted, skin pale as usual, and of course, his entire outfit was black, down to his oxfords. Anderson made his stupid comment and Sherlock moved swiftly and the next second, Anderson was on the ground.

"Oooh, nice uppercut," John commented, sliding the phone across the table. He was grateful he hadn't seen Sherlock's face on the screen. After all this time, John still hadn't gone on the website or checked the news; he couldn't bear to see Sherlock's face without knowing what kind of reaction he'd have.

"Yeah," Greg nodded. "It was quite a spectacle. Sally was furious, but she apologized so I won't be surprised if she breaks up with him."

John was quiet, swirling his drink around. "So uh...has he said anything? About the whole...thing?" John wondered aloud.

"Not a word, not even to Mycroft."

"He probably deleted it," John figured, slouching. "Wish I could do that."

"No, you don't," Greg countered. "You had the best damn time of your life with him and everyone knows it."

"Is that what this is about?" John motioned to the bar. "To get me to go back to him?"

"No, it's about me telling you that Sherlock needs you-"

"He never needed me," John said, setting his drink down a bit harder than he intended. "If he really wanted me, he'd call me or text or do something to get my attention. I'm not making you play messenger, Greg. We're all adults, let's act like it. Look, I've gotta run. Call me later," He tugged on his coat and headed out, giving Greg a wave before climbing into his car and racing off.

Greg put his face in his hands and pulled out his phone.

'No luck. Sorry.'-GL

'...'-SH

'I'm on my way over.'-GL

'Don't bother.'-SH

Ignoring the last text, Greg arrived at Baker Street and trudged up the stairs. The door was unlocked and he stepped in, nose crinkling at the smell.

The flat was an absolute mess. Books, papers, boxed dinner trays, dead plants, and a number of other unsanitary things littered the floor. By the fireplace, was one Sherlock Holmes, knees to his chest in his chair. John's chair was notably absent.

"Christ Sherlock!" Greg protested, heading in. "I thought Mrs. Hudson was exaggerating!"

"Mmm."

He found the Union Jack pillow and sat down on it. "You look terrible."

"Mmm."

"John's doing well."

"Of course he is."

Greg closed his eyes. "I tried to reason with him, but he wouldn't have it."

"Why wouldn't he?" Sherlock didn't move, eyes focused on the fire burning. "Obviously moved on, much happier now. He's had a string of girlfriends and one-night stands along the way"

"Yeah, and you're fucking miserable," Greg pointed out.

Sherlock shifted his weight, not that there was much left, and coughed. "I brought this upon myself. I should've suspected as much."

"What exactly caused him to leave? I thought you two were gonna get married or something?" Greg headed into the kitchen, bracing himself for whatever evil had manifested there. He found a clean set of cups and filled them with water. He returned and handed one to Sherlock. "You're dehydrated. Drink up."

Reluctantly, he took the glass and sipped it. "I always push people away. It was no surprise."

"Trust me, it was a shocker for us all," Greg pointed out.

"Mmm." Sherlock resorted back to making noises and gave up on the water. "How is he?" he asked after a minute, curiosity getting the best of his mind.

"You should see the car he has," Greg chuckled. "White jaguar, latest model. Convertible."

Sherlock nodded. "A mid-life crisis car."

"Probably," Greg agreed. "He asked about you too."

"What did you tell him?" Sherlock asked a little too quickly, eyes wide and curious.

Greg shook his head. "Just that you were working a lot. Showed him the video of you punching Anderson. He got a kick out of that."

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"C'mon, let's clean this place up. Hell, if I had know how bad it was, I would've called a cleaners," Greg said, getting to his feet. Sherlock didn't move, contiuing to watch the fire crackle and burn.

"Sherlock..." Greg pouted, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Everything will work out, you'll see."

"There's nothing to work out," he replied. "John's moved on, he's much happier and I'm here. Same as before."

"No, not same as before. John is just as alone as you are; he's just hiding it behind a fancy car and fuck buddies," Greg said, making a call. "Stay at my place tonight. A crew should be here in 10 minutes to do a thorough cleaning."

"Make sure they leave the box on the table. It's an experiment." With that, Sherlock took his coat and headed down the stairs.

* * *

Greg unlocked the door to his flat, letting Sherlock in first. "Guest bedroom is down the hall on the left. Everything's yours. And please...take a shower, you kind of stink," he added. "Towels are in the closet."

Sherlock nodded and headed for the bathroom. His coat slipped off with no effort and he looked over himself in the mirror.

His once too tight white shirt was now loose, hanging off his jutted collarbone. Sherlock met his own dead gaze, looking over his features.

Looking like death was putting it politely. Sunken cheekbones tugged tightly at his skin, purple bags under his now-grey eyes; that had been for awhile and it irritated Sherlock that he couldn't figure out how to make them blue or green. Usually colour coordinating his clothes worked, but they'd been grey since-

He snarled, removing his clothes and stepping into the shower, let the hot water run over him, loosening his matted hair. Sherlock took the spare hair brush and yanked it through, pulling chunks out. He gave up when the handle broke off and the bristles were stuck in his hair.

Shutting the water off, Sherlock grabbed a towel and dried himself. A pain of brown pajama bottoms and a cream shirt were on the counter; Greg must have slipped them in. Throwing them on, Sherlock stepped into the living room.

"Broke your comb," he said, sitting beside Greg, who had bug eyes.

"Oh..." he muttered. "Stuck pretty tight?"

"Indeed. I see no other way to remove it except to cut the hair."

"Right..." Greg got to his feet, found the scissors and returned. "Might as well cut all of it to even it out."

"A sound idea."

Getting to work, Greg snipped the section with the comb out and tried to make the rest of his level with it. By the time he finished, there was a pile of black locks on the floor and a short haired Sherlock Holmes on his couch.

"You know...it actually looks pretty good," Greg smiled, proud of himself. "I should be a hair stylist."

Sherlock examined his new hair, which stopped above his ears. "Don't pride yourself too much, Lestrade."

* * *

John sat on his couch, empty wine bottle in hand, tears streaming down his face.

In front of him was his laptop with Sherlock's website and the latest 'blog' of his adventures. Granted, it was been updated 3 weeks ago, but still...he read over it, hearing Sherlock's voice as he explained his deduction of the construction worker deaths and how he came to discover the killer.

Taking a deep breath, John coughed as another wave of tears hit him. His heart physically ached and he shut the screen down, heading for the shower. Under the hot water, John left himself scream and cry until his voice gave out.

This had all been a huge mistake.

Sure, he had the life he always dreamed of. Prime estate, the best damn car on the market, a beautiful woman by his side, sometimes two or three.

But what did it matter? It was all to drown the reality he refused to face.

John missed Sherlock...wanted him back, but if he dared to show his face around Baker Street or even consider reasoning with the detective; he'd be mocked and kicked to the curb after a swift, harsh deduction.

No..this was the life he chose and John was forced to stick with it.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, John called in sick and took the day off, getting some fresh air with a stroll around the park. He brought his new cane along, enjoying the sound it made against the stone walk way. John admired the fountain he was passing, not paying attention when he walked full force into someone, knocking them to the ground.

"Oh shite, I'm sorry!" John apoligized. "Here, let me help...you," he froze, hand extended as a familiar face glanced up at him.

"You never were quite aware of your surroundings," Sherlock said, cocking an eyebrow and getting to his feet on his own. "It's no problem."

John gulped and nodded. "Y-yeah, right." His eyes went over the younger man. "How-how've you been? You look...good. Nice haircut."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, shifting on his feet. "Same as always."

"Of course," John replied, picking up his cane. He kept his eyes on it, occasionally stealing a glance at Sherlock. There was so much he wanted to say and yet...nothing came to mind.

"Do you want to grab some lunch?" John asked before he could stop himself.

That made Sherlock perk up a little. He opened and closed his mouth several times before averting his gaze to his feet.

John smiled. "Right. There's a nice shop across the park, has the best soup and salad I've ever tasted."

"Mmm," Sherlock commented, following him, deducing him carefully. "You're working at the hospital again."

John chuckled in spite of himself. "Yeah, surgeon."

"Saving lives again," Sherlock commented. "Good for you."

"Thanks," John said, holding the door open to the shop. Sherlock nodded and stepped in. Instantly, a little petite red head appeared.

"Hi John!" she giggled, throwing her arms around his neck.

"Hey Traci-baby!" John put his arms around her waist, kissing her cheek. "Looking lovely as always!"

Sherlock cleared his throat, eyes shooting lasers at 'Traci-baby.' She looked at him and frowned. "Who's this?"

"Uh...lunch date," John said, keeping one arm around her. "Traci, this is Sherlock Holmes. Sh-"

"I know who she is," Sherlock cut him and stomped impatiently to the table by the window, away from everyone else.

"Isn't that your ex?" Traci frowned, handing John two menus.

"Yeah...we bumped into each other in the park. Literally...figured I'd try to break the ice."

Traci shook her head. "You know you're just digging a deeper grave for yourself."

"Maybe...," John said, heading for the table and handing Sherlock a menu.

"Girlfriend?" he asked, eyes focused outside.

"Wha-oh uh," John glanced back at her. "More like...a casual date. On and off-"

"Mmm."

John shut up, frowning. So far, so terrible. "Are you going to eat?"

"No."

He set the menu down. "Then what's this for?"

"Because you wanted it."

"Do you even want to be here right now?"

"No."

"Then go."

"Thank you." With the loud scrap of his chair, Sherlock was out the door and down the street in record time. John cursed and kicked the table leg, hissing as it shot pain up his leg. A figure came up beside him.

"Don't even say it-"

"Want me to come over after work?" Traci offered, kissing his cheek.

"God yes," John hissed, pulling her onto his lap. "In fact, why not now?"

* * *

Sherlock stormed down the street, knocking people out of the way, not caring if they shouted profanity at him. This entire plan had been a mistake. John would never change. He had a string of one-night stands at his beck and call, a wonderful job, life; everything. It was all better once he'd left.

And Sherlock knew it too. Knew the moment John got away, his life would be wonderful. It happened all the time. It was like Sherlock was the last stop, the hell before heaven, the darkest midnight before the beautiful sunrise.

He slowed down, gasping for breath, hand on the wall, tears blurring his vision. Sherlock cursed under his breath, kicking the trashcan. "Dammit!"

* * *

A/N: Sorry it's such a short chapter. More drama next time!


End file.
